Don't Stand So Close To Me
by Humbuggy
Summary: As a history professor, Cullen's never had a problem with being attracted to his students, but that was before he had Evelyn Trevelyan in his Intro to History topic. She's sent him off kilter; out of orbit. She's sent him into her well of gravity and there's nothing he can do about it, no matter how hard he tries. F!Tevelyan/Cullen, Modern!AU, StudentxTeacher!AU


Content Information/Spoilers at the bottom.  
This has been cross posted from Ao3.

* * *

Cullen sees her standing by a desk, talking with her friends. Trevelyan's hip is cocked against the desk – not quite sitting on it, not that there's rules against it because this is university not high school, but she's not quite standing on her own either. The back edge of her skirt has lifted a little, rucked up over the pale crook of her knee. Surely, she mustn't realise it's lifted. The fabric drapes itself over smooth skin, only suggesting at the true swell of creamy thigh. His gaze has followed the line of her leg up to the beginning curve of her ass before he realises it.

Cullen looks away sharply. Sternly.

He settles himself, feeling the threatening bloom of a headache that is the result of either too much or not enough coffee, and enters the lecture theatre. The room goes appropriately quiet as he settles his bag at the front desk. He's only taught this Intro to History class for less than a semester, but they know what he expects from them.

'If you would all find your seats,' he says, and turns his attention to setting up the powerpoint projection. Cullen feels her gaze on him. It's steady. He does not meet it. He cannot meet it.

Instead, he talks determinedly, clicking his way through the powerpoint's gritty details about the bloody height of the Tevinter Imperium. He's never been a fan of the Imperium, history wise. Cullen much prefers Ferelden's Early and Middle ages: templars, trebuchets, and waged war against Orlais. Trevelyan doesn't stop watching him as he talks – an encouraged behaviour in his other students who are mostly first years – but it makes him too aware of his own actions in front of the class. He meets her gaze by accident.

A mistake. For a full moment, he cannot look away. The sentence about magisterial power-struggles breaks off and his next words are left floating, unformed, on his tongue.

Cullen wants to burn red, maybe even stutter something.

Trevelyan is the first to break the lock of their eyes, looking down hastily at her writing book; she's embarrassed. Caught out. The edges of her cheeks bloom pick. She doesn't peek up through her lashes. Absurdly, he's glad of that. He catches his hand lifting to rub the back of his neck – a nervous tic he cannot show here. Especially not in his classroom, in front of his students.

He has to pull himself out of the awkward off-beat in the sentence that he hopes no one has noticed and succeeds in not looking at her again. The rest of the lesson proceeds as per the usual but Cullen cannot shake the feeling that something inside him, some key internal working, has stumbled and continues to do so.

Everything around him feels slightly kicked out of orbit, or maybe he's the one who's been kicked out of orbit and everything else is normal.

He resolves to ignore her, be as professional as he can, because he is a professional: a damned professor of history for Andraste's sake. But she keeps looking; he can feel her gaze even when she's not around. It grips him between the lungs and the stomach so intensely he feels it as a physical thing. It's a danger signal. Warning signs.

#

At no point during his work day can Cullen let his hyper-awareness of her drop. It twists around his gut to be so conscious of her, but it's too dangerous not to. He learns that the hard way. She's waiting by a room in the humanities staff corridor for one of the English professors and he doesn't notice her. He's too busy making a witty remark to Josie as they round the corner together. His voice is loud enough to echo along the rest of the corridor. Trevelyan is smiling when he realises she's there; a lifted cheek, a tuck of her lips. She heard him. His breathing stalls like he's been sucker punched. Heat crawls over him.

'Ah, Evelyn,' says Vivienne as she ducks her head out the door and into the corridor, 'this is about your research project, yes?'

He has to keep walking - he forces himself to continue into the staff room. He passes close to her – too close. He feels her regard. His awareness of her prickles up and down his shoulders. Her voice is steady as she speaks to Vivienne. Her voice is the loudest thing in the room.

Cullen should have more control that this. He needs to nip this in the bud. He can't let this continue. He needs to talk to her about this and lay down the law. Be stern about it. But what if it passes on its own and Trevelyan loses interest without him having to have that excruciating talk? What if there's nothing there, and it's all in his head, and he's the one –

If he says something and he's wrong… no. Cullen can't even imagine the fallout of that.  
He hopes desperately that it passes on its own.

He just needs to keep his distance. It's easier said than done. Cullen has to see her once a week for an hour and for two hours on a Tuesday. He can't avoid her completely, especially not when he has made it a point to discuss essay feedback with each student individually. It would look strange to not do that this time. It'd be stranger still to discuss it with each student but her. He cannot bring attention to this. He cannot.

Dread scrawls over him when he wakes the day their essays are to be returned. He's snappy. Restless. The passing clock of time judders in uneven too-fast and too-slow intervals.

He's in his staff room with his head bent over some marking when the soft knock at the door jerks him to attention.

'Mr Rutherford?' Evelyn Trevelyan is standing at the door, one arm wrapped around her ring-binder.

He needs more time to steel himself, but he doesn't have it and already she's looking a little nervous at his inadvertent silence.

'Yes!' he blurts, sounding more eager than he intended, before continuing more normally, 'Please, come in, Miss Trevelyan.'

She takes a seat in front of his desk and he tries to avoid meeting her eyes. It's dangerous to get hooked in that gaze. He settles for staring at her eyebrows. They're arched aristocratically, a tiny frown mark betraying her nervous tension.

'Right, ah.' Maker, he's babbling. Shit. 'Were there any questions you had about your grade?'

She shakes her head, 'No. Just, were my sources and citing okay?'

Cullen nods, relaxing a little. He can do this. It'll be fine.

'You're one of my better ones, which is just to be expected, but I'm glad to see you took note of the comments I made. A wide variety of academic sources which is great. I did notice that one of the mandatory resources weren't there and you didn't use all the recommended resources. Do you mind if I ask why?'

'I thought that the research I had already covered the recommended resources – so using them kind-of felt like over kill?' Despite the certainty her voice, Cullen nods encouragingly at her to continue. Trevelyan opens her binder to her returned essay and rubs her thumb over his red-pen markings, saying, 'And my topic question – well, I didn't think that the mandatory resource had very much to do with it and I couldn't see a place where I could reference it.'

'Ah,' Cullen says, letting a gentle understanding colour his voice.

Trevelyan's a good student – a third year student taking a first-year compulsory intro subject and found the assignment boundaries frustrating. He used to be a little like that in his youth too. He can commiserate.

'Yes, I can see why you'd decide not to include them. For future assignments, even if you don't directly quote the source you can still reference it, even if you end up double referencing. It adds authority to your writing. As for the mandatory references… I understand that it can be frustrating to try and work something in that doesn't quite align with your thesis. However,' Cullen says, getting up suddenly to swing around the desk to her side to look at her essay, remembering parts of it. 'You could've actually referenced the resource in your introduction here,' he taps the sentence with his index finger and then leans a little closer, scanning over the words to find his next example, 'and also here, as a supporting point to your argument.'

He turns to look at her, checking that Trevelyan has listened and understood, and it shocks him a little when he finds her looking at him intently already. He catches her face in glimpses, in parts cut off by proximity: the blade of her cheek bones, the soft dark eyelashes, the slight part of her lips and barest hint of white teeth. He's been so caught up in talking that he hasn't realised just how close he's gotten to her. Their heads are cocked close together. His arm is almost brushing her shoulder. She licks her lips; a sly dart of pink tongue.

They're so close. So close. Cullen hasn't been this near to a woman since… since he and Solona drank too much wine at the humanities staff party. Trevelyan sways a little towards him and, unthinking, he bends his head closer to hers. Her lips shiver and then still. Trevelyan blinks once, a flutter of dark lashes over her bright eyes, and it breaks the reverie she has him in. Cullen jumps back, too fast, too suddenly. He's burning red. How could he have forgotten himself so much?

Shame beats at him as he speaks without thinking. 'Okay, well, that was it. I've got no other commentary so that'd be all,' he's scraping his papers together, jamming them in his bag with his laptop. 'Just make sure to include all mandatory references next assignment.'

He's not looking at her, too focused on saying anything, anything at all to get him out of this situation. He doesn't realise that Trevelyan has moved to stand up, to stop him, to block him in at his desk. He can't get past unless she moves, or if he climbs over the desk itself.

'I was hoping,' she starts and Cullen blinks, horrified, at her. He feels like an animal in a trap. A terror swells in him, something wild and nameless and threatened, which is made worse by the sick underpinning of desire.

He can't step back; the chair crowds at his legs. The wall is to his left, desk to his right, window to his back. She's standing in front of him. She's so near he could touch her; wouldn't even have to move that much.

He's got to be firm. He needs her to step away.

'Please, don't stand,' he croaks. His voice is humiliatingly hoarse, 'don't stand so close to me.'

Trevelyan flushes red and hastily steps back. His relief is immediate, but it is not pure. He's also disappointed and Cullen hates himself for it.

'I – Sorry! I'm sorry,' she says, wrapping her arms around her ring-binder. Her face is as red as his. 'I just – I wanted to ask about when the next assignment would be due and if I could formulate my assignment question on my own?'

She's far enough away that he can collect his thoughts and calm his hammering pulse.

'Right. Yes, right,' he says and thankfully his voice has returned to some semblance of normality. 'It'd be due in about a month, I'll be giving you the rubric this Thursday. Formulate your own assignment question and give it to me to look over next week. If that's all, Miss Trevelyan?'

At her nod, he nods back and almost dashes out of the room. He doesn't wait for her to say anything and he doesn't dismiss her. He just leaves, trying to keep himself together.

Maybe it's because he hasn't slept with a woman in over four months; a few weeks that turned into a dry spell that looks like it's on-going. Cullen doesn't exactly have a wealth of free time in which to find dates and he hasn't wanted a girlfriend in a long time either. Weeknights are spent marking and weekends on his own research.

Cullen sighs, rubs his hands over his face, tugs his fingers through his hair, and resolves to get laid. It's the only thing he can think of right now that might help this damned cluster-fuck of a situation.

He tries, he does. He even hooks up with Varric's friend Isabela, who's been dropping suggestive 'I want to fuck you raw' looks since he met her. It doesn't help.

There's no one he can go to with this; anyone who would condone it is not someone Cullen wants to be friends with, and anyone who wouldn't… well, Cullen doesn't want them to know. None of this is helped by the knowledge that she is already twenty-one – if they were strangers in a bar… but she is not a stranger, and neither is he.

It's fast becoming more than torturous – more like an exquisite form of agony that Cullen both relishes and abhors. Giving in is like drawing out a splinter; both relief and pain.

His waking moments are consumed with thoughts of her. He thinks of Evelyn Trevelyan until he sees her and then he cannot think at all. His dreams are hazy languid things that turn frantic with her mouth on his, teeth clashing with no pain, no awkwardness, just pleasure. Evelyn's limbs in his dreams are long and sun-kissed. They melt into his dream-self each night, suffusing him with pleasure. She perfused the erotic underpinning of his sleep and he falls into it each night with uneasy relief.

Cullen finds, without realising it, excuses to look at her; to linger after the lecture as she is the last, always the last, to leave. When she speaks to him, she plays with the loose neckline of her shirt. It teases; tantalising with the hints offered by the small swell of cleavage.

He resigns himself to it. Surrenders.

After so long, it is not easy. No. It comes with more of a feel of inevitability; a slow sense of gravitational pull that draws him to an inescapable conclusion. If it was more collision than conclusion, he can't say. It hasn't happened yet, but it is happening.

#

Cullen's staying late in his room after the day's last lecture when Evelyn drops by. He's just standing to gather his bag when he looks up at a soft knock on the open door and sees Evelyn leaning slightly into the doorway, sure of her welcome but waiting for him to say so.

'Miss Trevelyan, what can I do for you?' he says, placing his bag down behind his desk and gives her his full attention. 'Is this about your assignment?' he asks, nodding towards the bounds of propriety even as his voice warms, welcomes her, calls her closer.

She nods, closing the door behind her, and comes over. The door shuts with a gentle thud. The lock clicks quietly – automatically – but the noise carries a weight that gives those soft sounds a substance they shouldn't have. Cullen watches Evelyn as she moves towards him, stepping once, then twice, so that though Cullen is still standing behind his desk, she's on the threshold of his personal space. When she comes to a stop, she's just touching the edge of too close.

Evelyn's holding her ring-binder close to her. The top edge of it presses against her chest so the swell of her breasts strains just slightly. A faint curve of cleavage shows out from the neckline of her dress. He tries to keep his gaze firmly on her face; he can see the twitch of her lips, pleased, when he fails.

'I've finished the draft for the assignment,' she says, 'and I was wondering if you'd look at it for me?'

'Of course,' Cullen replies, 'why don't you email it through to me and I'll get it back to you?' He shifts his weight onto his right leg and smiles at her.

'Actually,' she says, biting a little at her lip. Her tone is too assured for the seemingly nervous action. His eyes linger on their lush swell. 'I've got it here. Maybe we could go through it together? In person?'

Something in Cullen goes prickling hot and he stills. Considering. Evaluating. It is after the last lectures, 6 pm, no one is likely to pass by. The cleaners only get in at seven.

'Yes,' he says slowly, 'I've got some time now. Why don't you take a seat?'

He sits on his chair behind his desk and looks up at her. His blood buzzes as she grabs a seat and pulls it up beside him. He'd not intended for her to do that but he doesn't say anything, just watches a little from the corner of his eye as she sits. Her skirt rumples a little, riding up her right thigh. She doesn't correct it. Cullen itches to adjust the fabric but he can't say if he'd pull it straight or slide it up and expose even more of her skin. Evelyn sits with her knee's just shy from touching.

He's very aware of her beside him.

She pulls her draft out for him and he hums slightly to himself as he starts to read over it. His low humming is mostly for show. He likes the way the noise rumbles through his chest; Cullen's vain enough to do it and is honest enough to admit it.

'Here,' he says, pointing at a section of her essay, 'this part of your argument is a little unclear.'

Evelyn leans forward. Their elbows almost brush and a hot thrill slides in him.

'Just here, Professor Rutherford?' Evelyn asks, looking at him from under dark lashes. She's pointing at the wrong paragraph. She knows that; Cullen gets the feeling that she just wants to see what he'll do. A challenge. A provocation.

Blood hammers against his throat, close under his tight skin. It sends his voice to a low husk.

'No,' he says. His stomach swoops as he touches her wrist and, with the slight pressure of his fingers, shows her the part he means. His fingers are trembling. 'Right here.'

His voice is heated, intense. The words rumble deep in his chest. Evelyn's eyes bloom a deep black. Her thighs fall open just slightly in a quiet rustle of fabric. Cullen pretends to ignore it. He keeps his gaze away from the part of her thighs and the unspoken invitation and desire inherent in their open gape. He's walking into dangerous transgression here, he knows that. This, whatever this is, would've been unthinkable weeks ago – more than weeks, months. He's fallen so far without realising.

Everything in him is buzzing and hot, as if his skin is electrified and someone's poured a mantle of magma over him. It pools behind his gaze, in his gut, in his veins.

He's still talking, not even fully aware of what he's saying. She follows him when he leans back and pleasure washes over him when he realises that she's unconsciously chasing him. They're closer now than ever before. Their shoulders are almost brushing. Cullen can feel the heat of her. Their arms brush against each other and Evelyn's breath catches. He can feel the urge to smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and he raises a hand to hide it; he scratches his hand over his stubble and presses his thumb to his lips over the rakish pull of his scar.

She follows the movement. Staring. Wanting. His gaze catches hers and it's all burning. It's all good and hot and shameful.

Evelyn licks her lips. She mustn't even realise that she's doing it. Cullen wants to chase that tongue with his own - wants to taste her so much that it's all he can think of. Only the last vestige of his will keeps him in place. The knowledge of what kind of offense that action would be stops him from seizing her lips with his. The fact it pains him not to do so is just another mark against his self.

Cullen is in tatters. He manages to pull away enough to skim through the rest of her assignment and tell her that it's all fine. Evelyn leaves, finally, but it's like something pulling out of him. The tension between them is weighty. Thick.

The door clicks behind her as Cullen threads his hands through his hair, neck bowed, spine and body a tense, tortured line.

'Fuck. Fuck,' he says. It's almost a sob.

There's less than a month left before Evelyn finishes the subjects needed to graduate. He's not sure that his control will last that long. It has to though. It has to. He's got no other choice.

The sound that forces its way up his throat is harsh. Animal.

A month. Just a month, then he'll never have to see her again. The thought hurts more than he'd like to admit.

Cullen goes home avoiding the eyes of anyone he passes by. When he dreams that night, it's of kissing Evelyn in that room; of touching his way up her thighs and tasting.

#

The two and a bit weeks that follow are like drawing teeth. Cullen grips into his sanity with his fingernails and tries to hold on. His agitated state has gotten past the point of subtlety and the friends among his colleagues throw him worried glances that Cullen tries his best to avoid. He can't avoid Evelyn however. Though, truthfully, he doesn't want to. As it is, his tenuous grip on the depths of his feelings is stretched far enough; to avoid her entirely would be too much to bear. Instead he both contents and torments himself with her heated looks.

The stalemate Cullen's forced himself into cannot last. He knows this.

On the last day of lectures, a week before Evelyn hands in her last assignment, she lingers at his desk after the lecture. Cullen's cleaning up the last bits of cake from their easy hour of eating junk food and playing the history quiz Cullen devised for fun subject revision.

'Miss Trevelyan… Evelyn.' His voice caresses her name with unreasonable warmth. It's the first time he's called her anything but her last name. The sound of it lingers on his lips; he likes it more than he should.

'I just wanted to say that I've really enjoyed having you as a Professor,' Evelyn says. Her face is open and honest. Her regard is clear in her voice as she says, 'I've learned a lot from you and I wanted to say thank you.'

Cullen feels the urge to rock back on his heels in surprise before he recovers gamely, 'Thank you, that means… thank you. I've enjoyed having you in my lectures as well. You are an… excellent student.' He hesitates then plunges on, saying, 'I am sure that whatever you choose to do from here on out, you'll do brilliantly. I have no doubt.'

He can't help smiling at her. His speech was, perhaps, a bit too sincere, a bit too personal and impassioned but she smiles back at him. It is a warm smile; certain of itself.

'Thank you,' Evelyn replies. The clock ticks over the hour and she's late for her next class, but still she lingers, 'Have a good week, Professor Rutherford.' Evelyn hesitates, then adds, 'Cullen.'

His name is warm in her voice – brave too – and it shivers in him. The smile curls up on his lips and in his eyes before he thinks to stop it.

'You as well,' he says, and his voice is soft. Stunned. Fond.

She gives him one last smile and then leaves. She glances over her shoulder as she exits the room, her lips twitch, she drops her gaze, and the door slams.

His name off her lips… the sound of it… Cullen can't even begin to explain the eddying warmth of emotions that rise in him in her wake. He won't see her again; Cullen knows this. Their parting, this parting, should be harder; it should feel more final. Yet something lingers in him. He shouldfeel relieved that he'll no longer see her, and that he can now begin to get this transgress of feeling from out of his blood, but it's like he's holding his breath and the air is holding still with him; waiting for the drop…

#

Three days later, when the clouds fold down onto the sky and the storm crashes out from their black undersides, Cullen realises that the only thing waiting was the rain.

The storm brings an unseasonable chill and Cullen shrugs deep into the hooded jacket his sister gave him. The red fleece trim of the hood is soft and warm around his neck and he doesn't take the jacket off all day. He might be Ferelden born and bred, but the cold does get to him and he hates getting wet. He hates getting wet so much, in fact, that he lingers in his dry staff room for two hours, waiting for a break in the driving rain before he makes the run to his car. In the end, he lumps the rain and sprints the long cold distance to the car park.

His car is like an ice box and Cullen blasts the heater, spreading his hands over the air vent gratefully. He lingers only for a moment as the storm, which had been heavy with encroaching thunder, turns nasty with snarling streaks of lightening. It strikes three, four, six bolts at once with glass-shattering gunshots of noise. Cullen decides that it's well past time to hightail it home before the storm gets any worse and he pulls out onto the university's empty main road.

Or at least, mostly empty.

There's some poor student standing at the bus stop, not even huddling under a tree. They've got their laptop bag slung over one shoulder with their arms wrapped around themselves as they shiver miserably.

Cullen frowns at them; it's far too dangerous to be out in this storm and he knows that the buses from the university only run on the hour after four pm. It is just past five now. He slows the car – he cannot let them wait in this weather; it would be a dereliction of his responsibility. As he pulls up, he realises with a swoop of his stomach that it is Evelyn who is standing there soaking in the storm. And this, Cullen realises, is what he'd been unknowingly waiting for.

Thunder shakes the car, a rolling drum of noise, and Evelyn flinches as white lightning shatters down on the horizon.

Without thinking twice, Cullen throws the side door open and shouts, 'Maker's breath, Evelyn! Get in!'

An almighty boom of thunder punctuates his point and Evelyn flings herself into the car with a wild look on her face. She's soaked to the bone and is practically rattling with shivers.

'Here,' Cullen says, groping for the heater so he can direct all the vents at her.

'Thank you, Professor Rutherford,' Evelyn says, 'but that's not really necess-'

She's interrupted by the chatter of her own teeth and Cullen swears, immediately shrugging off his jacket. He drapes it around her and the jacket dwarfs her.

'You're frozen through,' he tells her when she tries to protest.

'You really needn't have -' she tries again.

Cullen can only shake his head.

'It's really not safe out there. Besides, I'm not sure the buses are even running in this weather.'

Evelyn looks even more miserable. 'I could go back to school to wait it out,' she offers.

Cullen's scandalised, 'Maker! No! You're freezing cold and the library is already shut. I couldn't leave you there, what kind of man do you take me for?' makes her twitch a smile at the climbing register of his voice. Technically speaking, the student hub has twenty-four-hour access, but he chooses to overlook the fine details.

'No,' he sighs, closing his eyes for a second, 'how about I take you home then?'

'Are you sure?' she asks.

Cullen fixes her with a look. 'Yes,' he says firmly.

'Well… then, thank you very much, Professor Rutherford,' Evelyn says with a careful smile and tells him her address.

Cullen drives cautiously; he doesn't trust the storm, nor the wind that buffets the trees, or the lightning that strikes distantly around them.

Despite the heater and the jacket, she still shivers, rubbing her hands over the heater. Cullen can't help himself.

At a red light, he says, 'Here,' and beckons her over with his open hands.

Evelyn places her hands into the cup of his palms and he folds his hands over hers. Her hands are ice cold and he rubs them to try and stimulate the blood flow. Despite the chill of her skin, Cullen can't deny the skittering of excitement that rises in him. Desire to touch more of her swirls in him and, with a swoop of reckless action, he raises the cup of his hands up to his lips and blows gently into them. His lips are not touching her hands, but his warm breath is and she stares at him, entranced. Her lips part gently and her ink-black irises bloom wide.

The light changes and Cullen doesn't move, his gaze caught with her.

'It's green,' Evelyn says. Her voice is low and rough. Reluctant. 'the light, its gone green.'

Cullen drags his hands away from her and drives. Her name is loaded in his mouth. It hangs, unspoken, in the air between them. Her gaze is hot on him and he cannot think past the feel of her skin.

Then the tree explodes ahead of them.

A cavernous BOOM-roll-CRACK shatters the air as a crackling white heat strikes the dead pine and the tree blows outward in a burst of burning wood and ozone. Cullen swears violently and Evelyn yells, flinging her hands up. The car swerves to violent stop as Cullen slams on the breaks.

'Maker's breath,' Cullen chokes out through his teeth, 'Evelyn, are you okay?'

'Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.' Evelyn is shaking violently in her seat, 'I'm okay. I'm okay.'

She doesn't sound okay.

'Right,' Cullen says. His hands are shaking on the wheel. 'I'm not driving in this anymore. My house is closest.'

Evelyn nods shaky agreement, her face white.

The ten-minute drive to Cullen's house is tense and punctuated by intermittent thunder and cracks of lightning. Cullen can't deny that he's relived when they're finally inside his house. They stand close together in his small entranceway, dripping onto his floorboards. Cullen's white button up has gone see through in the time it took to get from his car to here and Evelyn's shivering anew.

Another shaking roll of thunder makes both of them jump and then laugh nervously, awkwardly, as they catch the absurdity of this strange moment. Tension slips into the air between them. Neither he nor Evelyn can meet the hot drag of each other's gaze. Cullen is suddenly very aware that both of their clothes are wet enough to see through; his button up clings to his chest and her white shirt and skinny jeans stick at her skin. Her bra is blue and grey, patterned like a honeycomb. He swallows. His Adam's apple sticks in his throat.

'I'll get us some towels,' Cullen says, pulling away from her. There is a heady sense of danger. It burns in him like good vodka.

The house dulls the rain to a point where it feels like they are in the inside of a muffled drum: more vibration than noise – the noise all outside not in. It plucks at the air between them.

Cullen returns from fetching the towels and Evelyn flashes a grateful smile as he hands her the nicer one of the two.

She presses her face into the towel, wiping the beaded rain off her skin. Cullen's just holding his towel in his hand, pressed over his arm – too busy watching her as her clothes cling against her. He can't tell if the drumming he's hearing is the rain or if it's the pounding of his own thoughts – the demand of his blood against his skin.

'Do you have any dry clothes I can borrow?' she asks. A shiver punctuates her point and Cullen blinks, dumbly, at her for a moment then nearly trips over himself in his haste to answer.

'Yes. Yes, I do. Ah – follow me?'

He rushes off to his bedroom and tries to hide the woeful mess of his drawers as she stands at the threshold of the door. He's pathetically grateful for the space she's giving him and yet he wishes she'd come closer – a tearing of self in two directions.

He fishes out his nicest pair of sweatpants and his old collegiate jumper, which is the softest, warmest, comfiest thing he owns. He bundles them together and hands them over to her. Their hands brush together and the chill of her skin burns him.

'Bathroom's down the hall, to the left.' His voice is unintentionally rough.

'Thank you,' she says.

Evelyn hesitates for a second, looking as if she's about to say something, before she goes, leaving him standing in the doorway.

He's a wreck of a man. He's very aware of that fact. Cullen needs a moment to pull himself together. Only the cling of his clothes to his skin, the cotton cold and uncomfortably clammy, spurs him into movement. He strips out of his clothes with perfunctory hands, drying himself roughly before pulling on a dry pair of underwear and his second best sweat pants. He's got his knit jumper in hand, looking for a shirt that doesn't have curry stains from that Rivaini restaurant he likes, when Evelyn's voice makes him jerk upright.

'Is there somewhere you want me to put this?'

Her voice breaks off abruptly when she realises that he's not wearing a shirt. Cullen can feel the flush crawl up his cheeks and over his chest. He's acutely aware of how much skin he has on show. His pants are riding low, exposing the line of muscle down from his hipbones. The rest of him is similarly on show and he shifts in place.

'Oh,' she says – more of a soft exhale of air. Her gaze is glued on the ridge of his abs – Cullen's a little smug he's still got them actually. He can see the point where she begins to follow the trail of soft blond hair that rides down from his belly button. The heat of her own gaze kickstarts a pooling of heat down his spine. His cock stirs, taking an interest in the intensity of her stare and the picture she makes in his clothes: the sweats pooling over her bare feet, the hoodie sleeves pulled up her wrists.

Hastily, he pulls the jumper over his head. To hell with the undershirt, he needs to make some distance between them.

'I can take that,' he says, motioning towards the towel she's holding. He hangs it over the corner of the door to dry and he can feel her watching the stretch of his muscles as he does so. He tries not to think about the bed that's right there next to her – but she's right there and the bed's right there and everything's caught up in his head. His breath trembles in him.

'Evelyn,' he starts, turning to look at her, turning to ask if she wants anything to drink - and then she moves and all thought turns to white noise.

She's so close to him. She's in his space and standing so close that they're touching. Then in a swoop of movement, like she's she decided to move too fast to think about it, her hands come up to grasp his jaw and her lips are on his.

Her mouth is soft and hot and perfect. His hands come to grasp her waist and it's like his fingers were made for touching her. He tugs her against him, pressing their bodies together as he returns the kiss with fervour. One of her hands drags down the back of his neck and he can feel his pulse jumping against her skin. He is all heat and pressure, held in place by her lips.

Everything is burning white and brilliant and he can't think for shock of it.

Cullen pushes his fingers up into her hair, palms sliding down her neck, into the small of her back, pulling her closer and closer until she can't go anywhere else. He's hardening in his sweat pants and she pushes her hips closer to his. His cock is hot line against her.

He groans deep in his chest.

She slips her fingers under his jumper. Her touch is freezing but it sends heat blooming from where her fingertips press just above his sweatpants. He needs to touch her skin to skin. Her breasts are soft and small in the cup of his palm as he tests the give of them – it's still not enough. He wants her so badly that he's shaking. He wants, he wants, he wants.

'Cullen,' Evelyn gasps. Her voice is breathy and wanting and it's his student's voice.

He comes to his senses with a crash and all that heat goes cold.

'No!' He shouts, tearing himself from her, pushing her away and stumbling back. Shame pours into him as apologies run out his mouth, 'I'm sorry, we can't. Evelyn, I – I am –'

She's already interrupting him, 'Sorry, I'm so sorry! I just thought – '

' – you're my student and – '

' – that you wanted me as well – '

' – this was incredibly wrong of me.'

He stops speaking before she does and he catches her last few sentences as she says, ' – it's just that I was getting all these signals, and I'm so sorry.'

Cullen retreats further, shaking his head as he does so. There is enough space between them that he can feel himself come back to sanity. 'No. This is my fault. This is on me. I… deeply apologise. You are my student and this is deeply wrong of me. I apologise for any misguidance or distress I have caused you. I never should've let it go so far.'

He breaths shakily though their twinned embarrassment and shame that chokes the air. Evelyn is avoiding his gaze and he rubs the back of his neck. He can't tell if it's due to humiliation or anxiety. This is his fault. This is his shame. Cullen swallows hard and tries to mend what damage he has wrought.

'I can make some hot chocolate… or coffee?' Cullen asks, trying to divert the awkwardness. 'If you're still comfortable with me driving, I can take you home when the storm dies down.'

Evelyn sizes on the olive branch with obvious relief, croaking out a shamefaced reply, 'Yes, please, to coffee and the ride. That's very generous… I would appreciate it?'

The inflection of her voice turns her statement into a question and Cullen feels horrendous at causing her sudden uneasy insecurity around him.

'Okay,' he says and allows himself only a second to breathe and collect himself. 'Alright. Okay.' He says once again before he leads the way to the kitchen.

She sits at the kitchen bench as he makes their coffees. The walls of propriety are firm around them and Cullen is grateful beyond words. They drink and watch a documentary about Mabari in almost companionable quiet until the storm dies down enough that Cullen can drive Evelyn home.

#

The drive back is quiet and punctuated only by the rain with it's distant thunder. Cullen pulls up in front of her house and idles the engine, hesitating. He licks his lips closes his eyes for a second. Maker help him, but Cullen cannot leave it like this.

Evelyn gets in before he can say something but all she says his name. All the words that might've followed are swiftly aborted and only 'Cullen –' is left hanging awkwardly in the air. He swallows, feeling the need to apologise, to say something.

'If things were anything but what they are…' Cullen loses his nerve midway and the words shrivel up in his mouth. He stammers for a second, squeezing his hands on the steering wheel feeling impotent and poisoned. Finally, Cullen sighs and says, 'Good luck with your future endeavours.'

It's too impersonal, but he doesn't know what else to say. When he turns to look at her, her gaze is a strange mix of compassion and lostness.

'Thank you for the lift,' she says quietly. She's got one hand on the doorhandle, but she hasn't made any other move to get out. Cullen wonders for a second why she's waiting, but then she's leaning in and kissing him softly on the cheek. It is a parting kiss; bitter as it is sweet.

Then she's sliding out from the car and is gone. The warmth of her lips on his cheek reverberates around his hollowed insides. It is strange, he thinks as he starts the engine, that it felt a little like benediction.

Cullen does not expect to see Evelyn again.

Except that he does.

#

The wine-and-whisky bar Cullen's sitting in is warm and filled with low ambient noise. There are enough people to make it busy, but not enough to make it crowded and there is a small pool of space around the table Cullen's sitting at. He'd met up with some of his friends for Friday drinks but all of them had trickled off earlier for various reasons and now he was alone. Cullen's been nursing the last little bit of his whisky for a while, trying to put off returning to his empty house. He tilts the glass, watching the rich amber whisky slide around the cut crystal. He considers buying another one.

Then, rising from the depths of dream and memory, a voice.

'Professor Rutherford? Cullen?'

He jerks, looking over his shoulder. Seeing her is like a punch to the gut. Evelyn Trevelyn stands there with a delighted and disbelieving smile on her face.

He almost doesn't recognise her. Evelyn's hair is dyed a soft silvery grey and has been styled in a fashionable short undercut. Some of the softness has dropped off her cheeks, her edges sharpened a little, a wicked wit glinting in her smile and her eyes. His breath sticks in his lungs.

'Miss Trevelyn?'

'Evelyn please,' she says, smiling. 'I'm hardly your student anymore.'

No, he supposed not.

He can't help smiling up at her as he agrees, 'Alright… Evelyn. I…' He takes a breath, starts again, 'Seeing you is a surprise, I admit.'

'Mhm,' Evelyn nods, 'it's been, what? Two years since I graduated?'

'Something like that.'

Cullen's staring unashamedly at her – her grey tank shows off her arms and he follows the line of them down to a black leather jacket held loosely in one hand. She notices him looking and smiles. It's sly. Secure. Confident. He can feel the heat scrawling at the back of his neck, one hand going to rub at it.

'Let me buy you a drink,' Evelyn says. He can't bring himself to turn her offer down.

Their conversation becomes easy halfway through their first glass. Cullen finds himself laughing and then delighting in how he makes her laugh as well. He can't keep the last time he saw her out of his mind – but this… this is almost replacing that.

He's almost surprised by their easy rapport and somehow the topic gets on favourite pieces of clothing. Cullen says his is the jacket his sister made him. She tells him it's sweet, cupping her chin in her hand as she leans on the table. Cullen doesn't add that he wore it the last time he saw her, and that he thinks of her wearing it in his car every time he's used it since. The alcohol has made them both loose limbed and flush-faced. Her cheeks are pink. Cullen can feel the urge to sweep them with his fingertips.

'My favourite piece of clothing,' she confesses, 'is an old college jumper. Doesn't even have my name on in.'

Cullen stills. He lost his college jumper to her when she left his car with it.

There's something of a challenge in her voice where she continues, saying, 'I wear it in bed all the time. Especially in winter… it's so warm I don't need to wear anything else.'

She takes a drink, but her gaze is slid towards him, watching for his reaction. Cullen can't hide it. He doesn't want to hide it. The kickback of desire that washes through him at her confession is shocking. Possessive. He remembers seeing her wearing his clothes all too well. The image of her wearing that jumper now, with her bare legs peeking out from it, was overwhelming.

'That,' he begins slowly, 'wouldn't happen to be my college jumper, would it?'

His boldness almost shocks him, but she looks delighted. It's like he's taken her up on a dare he didn't even know she was offering.

'It could be.' Even though her words are evasive, her tone is not. Evelyn licks her lips, that sly dart of pink tongue. She's looking at him like she hadn't just said the most attractive thing he's heard all year. Her gaze is sparkling with wicked humour.

She bites her lip again and takes another sip of her drink. Her gaze does not leave his face. Cullen can feel something bloom deep in his belly. It stirs hot. Slow.

He can feel that something has shifted between them – a challenge to her demeanour that he can feel himself rise to meet.

A drip of whiskey hangs off the plush curve of her lower lip. He raises his hand toward her and brushes it away with a thumb. She breathes sharply, pupils blowing wide. Her gaze follows the line of his thumb when he sucks the drop of whisky off it. He's never tasted anything so sweet.

Her gaze is so approving. So heated. He wants to keep seeing it. He wants to hear it in her voice.

He can't stand the mounting tension between them, and he breaks their gaze to take a sip of his whisky. When he looks at her again, she's observing him under her lashes. Something considering glints in her eyes.

'So,' Evelyn says. She runs the tip of her finger around the rim of her tumbler. 'I've always wondered, did you actually want to fuck me when I was in your class?'

The question is so unexpected that Cullen jerks in his chair, nearly fumbling his drink.

His face, the tips of his ears, the back of his neck, burn red as he tries to stammer an answer.

'Because I certainly wanted you to,' she continues. 'I thought I was so obvious about it too.' Her laughter is self-depreciating even as her gaze doesn't waver.

'Maker's Breath, Evelyn – I.'

'It wasn't one sided was it?' she asks, 'I'm sure it wasn't but…'

'It wasn't,' Cullen rushes to say it, not even stopping to consider the insinuations, 'but you were my student and- I – I've never, not ever – I couldn't.'

'Would you have?'

He shakes his head. Not a no, but an unwillingness to answer.

Evelyn leans forward, holding his gaze with her own. There's something in it that holds him still. Her tank top shows off the shadows of her cleavage and the edges of her electric blue bra. Her foot slides until she's pressing her ankle against his.

'Tell me, Cullen, I really want to know.'

'I – no. no.' He can say nothing but the truth. 'If you had pushed harder, if my resolve had been weaker… but otherwise, it would've been… unthinkably wrong.'

Is that disappointment in her eyes? He can't tell.

'And what about now?' she asks, quirking her eyebrow.

'Well, I.' and now he's scraping. He wants her approval desperately. He wants her to look at him with that sly knowing gaze. He doesn't want to analyse why he wants it so much. Doesn't want to offend her.

'C'mon Cullen, tell me.'

She's daring him and, Maker help him, he cannot help himself.

'I would.' The words fall out of him. 'the moment you let me.'

And now, here the heat curls into a smile on her face. The approval is palpable. Cullen can feel the relief spread throughout his body, a pleasant, floating elation.

She pushes herself up from the table. Still smiling, Evelyn tilts her head towards the bar's exit and says, 'You coming?'

Cullen cannot follow her fast enough.

#

The taxi ride to his place agony – both the best and worst kind.

Cullen's nervous and turned on all at once; he's not sure what she wants of him, but he wants to find out. He wants to make her feel good. He doesn't want to let her down. He doesn't want to disappoint her again.

It is not helped by her leaning over partway through the ride and murmuring into his ear, 'You've no idea how much I wanted this. Fuck, Cullen, I want you to touch me so badly right now.'

And he would, oh he would, except there's a seat between and her hands are folded in her lap. She's made no move to touch him. In fact, he'd think she'd changed her mind, but there's a smile dancing on her lips and a heat in her gaze.

He can't do anything except sit there, legs trembling from impatience and lust.

The curl of her smile deeps when she hears the way his breath shakes.

The taxi ride cannot end too soon. Cullen pays the driver with a fistful of notes and a hefty tip. He's too impatient to wait for change, but not too impatient to help Evelyn out the cab. Her hand slips into his and she smiles up at him for this unhesitating chivalry.

There is a moment when they get into the foyer of his house where they just stand there as if it's a mirror to that stormy afternoon all those years ago. Except this time, it's different.

This time, he's visibly hard in his jeans, they're stepping forwards and their hands are all on each other. If her touches before were hot, these are scorching. It has been more than two years since he touched her and he's forgotten the details. He'd forgotten the way her fingers had felt on his skin until now. He's already got a hand up her shirt and under her bra, clothing pushed up like he was sixteen again and too impatient to wait. But it's fair because she's got one hand on his neck and the other raking under his shirt at his lower back. They're both tugging each other's clothes off – pulling open zips and stumbling out of jeans and jackets and shirts.

'You better have a bed,' she says at one point and he's already lifting her up – she goes with a shocked breath that groans into both their voices and this new position brings her hips in contact his own hips, her hot cunt pushing against his cock. Her underwear is soaked through and the tip of his cock is pushing out from the waistband of his own.

He stumbles towards his room; collapsing backwards onto the bed when it hits the back of his thighs.

They're still kissing, open mouthed and spit slick. Their tongues stroke against one another and it's all hot and filthy and good. She's straddling him and, sweet maker, the pressure is good, good, good. He can't think beyond this moment; beyond her knees at his sides. Can't think beyond her teeth biting at his lower lip. A bright point of pain.

At one point, Evelyn groans 'Cullen, mark me', tossing her neck to the side and Cullen takes the hint, sucking a deep love bite just by her throat. She gasps his name, rocking into him, and he sucks harder at her sharp and approving noises. Her voice is tipping the edge of too much when he pulls away from the reddening mark on her skin to kiss her again.

The shift in their dynamic is more obvious than ever – it feels almost as if she's goading him into a contest of wills by the way she alternates between controlling the kiss and letting him think he's got the upper hand.

He's competitive, Cullen knows this, and he can't help but respond to it. When she rakes her hands down his back, biting his lower lip, Cullen one-ups her by rolling her onto her back. She goes easily as he pins her down and pushes her knees apart. Her thighs open enough to let him put his shoulders between them. She laughs, delightedly, putting up a token resistance he defeats easily – but it doesn't feel like she's been defeated. If anything, it feels like he's doing exactly what she wants him to.

If anything, he feels almost like supplicant.

'You should eat me out,' she says. Her voice shakes with bright pleasure but there's no suggestion in her voice. There's no request. Only an expectation of his blind obedience. Cullen doesn't question. Cullen doesn't acquiesce. Cullen simply does. He bends himself to her will.

He pulls her hips towards him, so that her hips are right on the edge of the mattress and he's kneeling on the ground, one arm around her thigh as he leans flush against the side of the mattress. His cock grinds against the side of the bed. It takes the edge off. He slides her black underwear off her, shucking his own off him at the same time. Her gasp of air breaks with a cry when he pulls back to touch her cunt. His fingers tremble.

He parts the folds of her labia gently as she makes and approving sound. He runs a finger lightly up from the slick entrance to her clit. Maker's breath she's wet. Wet and hot. His heart is hammering inside his chest. The pulse beating blood against his skin. Her breath sighs approvingly when he bends his head to take his first taste.

He's gentle at first, testing out what she likes, before he gets adventurous. His tongue dips into her, curling hard as he gives a hard suck of her clit and she gives a shocked cry. Her hands shoot down to his head, her fingers curling into his hair and tugging hard. It's painful and good all at once. It sends white sparks tumbling behind his eyes and down his spine. His groan is entirely involuntary – it comes deep from within his throat as his cock jumps.

She tugs again sharper and he makes that noise again – the groan that edges into a needy whine.

'Good,' she gasps. 'Good Cullen.'

Cullen doesn't think about the suffusion of pleasure at her praise. He's too caught up at the slight ache in his knees as he kneels as Evelyn loses herself beneath his tongue and his touch. He keeps to the pattern she likes the best. She tells him what she wants, and he does it. No requests. Just orders to be followed.

Evelyn is certain of herself. She knows what she likes and makes no apologies for it. There is very little coquettishness to her now. Cullen's fingers are fucking into her and she's grinding up against him, pulling his hair and gasping his name. Her legs are clamped tight around his ears. She's riding her clit on his tongue, pussy tremoring around his fingers. She drags his free hand up her body and clutches it tight to her hip. He's sure to leave bruises but she's whimpering now, squirming like a wild thing as he lets her drive his actions to her completion. He wants her to feel good. He wants her to come. Wants her to be pleased with him.

When she comes, it's with a wail. He can barely breathe. His lungs are full of the sharp-salt of her. Hedonistic. Rich. They're both breathing hard as she shakes through her orgasm. She's pulled him up on her to ground her, so he holds her close; his leg flung over hers, his head pressed to her shoulder, his arms around her as she curls into him. He's still hard. His cock presses into the hollow of her hip and he could rock into her, but he doesn't. He won't do anything. Not yet. Not until Evelyn says so. Not until she wants it.

'Good Cullen, so good for me.' The praise rolls off her tongue all rough voiced and orgasm thick. But she's pleased and so approving. He wants to hide his blush in the heat of her skin, but she doesn't let him. Instead she kisses him, her hand sliding though his hair, tugging slightly. He's stopped stifling his groans when she does it. Evelyn smiles into their kiss.

'You like that, huh?' She murmurs.

It's not a question, but he gasps his assent. His low groan slides to a high, needy, whine as she draws head back. His neck is a taut arch and his spine is bent in a bow. His eyelashes flutter closed. All he sees is darkness and bright flashes of light. If this is what she wants, he will take it. He hopes, desperately, that this is what she wants.

'I want to fuck you.' Her voice is soft and filthy.

Cullen thinks he gasps something in response. Perhaps a 'Yes'. Perhaps no words just sound.

He can feel the fingers of her other hand feather across his lips and over his jaw. Her thumb presses down on the plush curve of his bottom lip. He parts them blindly, letting her slip her thumb between his teeth. The pad of his thumb is hot against his tongue and he laves it, licking at it as if it's her clit. Like he's trying to get them good and slick. Distantly, beyond the bright pain of her grip in his hair and the pleasure of her touch, he can hear her sharp inhale. He can hear the breathy curse of his name.

Her thumb is replaced by her pointer finger, which is joined by her middle finger and then her ring finger. He feels filthy. Decadent. He feels so good. He's gone beyond laving at her fingers. He's gone beyond thought. His mind is white noise as he suckles at her fingers like they're holy ambrosia.

He could die in the moment and never know it. He could be dying right now and never know it.

All he knows is this. All he knows is her.

When she pulls her fingers from him, he chases them. Cullen whines desperately, trying to grind his cock into her skin.

'Not until I fuck you,' she says. There is laughter in her voice. It's benevolent. Low and pleased.

She drops her hand away from his hair, and he regrets the loss of it immediately, his eyelashes flicking open to say something like no, please put it back, but –

'Condoms in the top drawer?' She asks, pushing him up to the headboard with one hand.

His 'Yes', is shaky. A trembling, heated, word.

Evelyn pulls herself up and off the bed, all long limbs and sure moments as she fetches a condom from his dresser. He feels obscene as she walks back and straddles him. He is all too aware of the bob of his cock as he shifts in place, the red flush over his chest, the race of his breath. Evelyn rips the foil packet open and rolls the condom down over his cock, pinching the top with a practised hand. He can't look away from her fingers; the graceful movement of her wrist. Her sure hand. Cullen groans slightly and she rubs her thumb over the head of his cock and she catches his gaze. Her eyes are dark. Intense. The heat in them is matched by the heat of her as she sinks down onto his cock. It burns him. Sends fire through his blood.

Her dark lashes flutter against her cheeks as she rocks down to the base of his cock. His hands find her hips, thumbs pressing into her skin. Cullen's breathing hard already and their groans mingle together as she begins to ride him. It's a slow rock at first until she finds her rhythm.

'Fuck me, Cullen,' she demands, and he does so. Her words. His will.

He fucks up into her and she tosses her head back. No artifice, only abandon. Her breasts bounce with each thrust and he would touch them, heft those small mounds in his palms - but she hasn't told him to, so he doesn't. She's got her hands gripping onto his thighs and maker, she is so beautiful. He could spend an eternity in this moment. He could live forever surrounded by her heat. But his thighs are shaking and she's shaking too. Her voice rides to a wail as she chases her orgasm, and Cullen's wants to come but he has to get her to come first. He has to make her feel good. He has to hear the approval in her voice.

Evelyn comes with a cry. She pulses around him; collapsing down onto him as he keeps fucking her until she gasps 'Good. Cullen, Good,' and everything goes white hot as he finally comes. Cullen feels himself shatter into a thousand pieces. He's been trying to put it off for so long he can't keep himself together. His heart hammers against his lungs. His lungs hammer against his chest. There is nothing but this.

When he scapes himself together, they are both breathing hard. They've pressed themselves together and Cullen pulls out of Evelyn with a clumsy movement. He manages to peel the condom off and discard it in bin beside the bed as Evelyn pulls herself up off the bed. Everything feels slow. Everything feels more than it should.

He manages to pull on a clean pair of briefs as Evelyn ducks to the bathroom. Somehow the messy after-business of sex should feel awkward but it doesn't. For a moment he wonders if she'll stay. For a moment he fears that she won't.

But Evelyn's already returning, stumbling on fucked-out limbs back to his bed.

'C'mre,' Evelyn says, holding a lethargic hand to him. Once again, there is no question in her voice. Only request that is more than a request.

He takes her hand, joining her underneath the covers. She rolls into him as he gathers her up and almost immediately begins to drift to sleep. Exhausted, Cullen does the same. He almost regrets how quickly sleep comes to him. He doesn't know if he'll ever get this moment again. He should savour it.

The morning is slow to pull on them both. Evelyn wakes first and Cullen slowly comes to as she stretches spine back against his chest. They are warm bodies against warm bodies and it has been so long, too long, since Cullen has felt this. It's luxurious. Lazy. He can't help but pull her closer. He can't help but wonder when she'll inevitably pull away.

He didn't think that Evelyn would be the type of person who can't get back to sleep once awake, but she is.

'D'you want first shower, or shall I?' She asks.

It's an effort to rouse himself enough to answer.

'You take it.' He can't help but press a kiss into her short hair. It feels stolen. Illicit. 'I'll get you a towel.'

She smiles at him when she returns. Her hair is damp and curling; he's never seen it like that before. The undone-ness of it suits her.

Cullen showers fast. He almost doesn't expect to still see her when he comes back, but there she is, texting on her phone as she sits on the edge of his bed.

'Evelyn,' he says, her name falling off his lips. He feels stupid when he can't think of anything to follow it. All his quickly discarded statements are awkward. Idiotic.

'Hey,' She says and then kisses him.

Her lips are so soft.

When she pulls back, she's got a soft look on her face. He's not sure why. He can't read her.

'I can't stay,' she tells him.

'Oh. That's quite alright.'

Cullen's already drawing back from her, trying to find easy responses to the 'it was fun, but' that's surely about to come.

He shouldn't have said yes to that drink. He should've come home alone. He should've… he should've.

'Before I go though,' Evelyn starts. Cullen braces himself for what's about to come. 'Give me your number?'

Cullen can feel himself startle a little as she turns her phone toward him. He can do nothing but type his contact details in, leaving the space for his name blank. He doesn't know what he'd put himself down as – better to let her choose.

She sends him a blinding grin when he passes the phone back.

'Thanks,' she says.

Cullen tries to claw together a reply but she's already pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth and seeing herself out. It happens in a space of a breath and Cullen is left, standing in his bedroom and dripping water onto the floor.

He feels undone. Half finished. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. They dangle, limp, at his sides.

Breakfast, he thinks, trying to scrape himself together. Get breakfast and then… he doesn't know. The day stretches out empty before him. It's better to be busy though, and Cullen buries himself in some newly published research he was leaving for later as he tries not to think about Evelyn Trevelyan or the devastation she leaves in her wake.

The text alert to his phone at six pm comes as a shock, jerking him out of the post-marking fugue.

It's Evelyn.

'Dinner tomorrow?' she asks.

Cullen can feel the smile spill across his lips.

He can't reply fast enough.

Fins.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Reviews make my day every time and I love answering author-note type questions!

If there's anything not tagged that you think needs to be, please let me know!

I was listening to 'Don't Stand So Close To Me' when reading this but high-school student/teacher stuff is too skeevey and Not Good so it's university now. It still hits a lot of the marks thought - look at the lyrics after reading, the plot points are there.  
I also had a lot of fun writing Cullen's dramatic 'but Moral Honour!' angst and Evelyn's 'I know what I want & I'm gonna get it'. (I was aware that writing this from Cullen's PoV could tread a skeevey line so I tried to write Evelyn as having as much agency and say in it as possible). I tried hard to flip the dynamics, esp in the end section, so that the inherent power imbalance of teacher/student relationships were more interesting and less unhealthy. (Plus the idea of Cullen having a Thing for his hair being pulled was too good to resist). Hopefully I succeeded.

 **WARNING TAGS/CONTENT INFORMATION: E is a university student, C is her history professsor. There is very obvious attraction between the both of them and it's written that way. Each of them pursues the other with the full understanding that it's not quite right. Both are consenting adults, and any stuff that isn't kissing happens after Cullen's no longer her professor.**


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